The Bone Conjurer
by Where.Is.When
Summary: How might things have changed if Princess Boa had never been murdered? If the Prince of Midnight himself rebelled against the very ideas he had been taught from birth? Would things be different? Of course :P CarrionxOFC
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: Hi everyone! This is my first Abarat fanfic, and I'll tell you right now that this is a 'what if?' kind of a story. Clive Barker did not intend his characters to do the things I'm making them do, but I promise to hew as closely to his characterizations is possible. I'm presenting you with a different turn of events, but it wouldn't be a fanfiction without the characters we all know and love. Please let me know what you think :)**

* * *

It was truly the golden age of Abaratian royalty.

All had gathered on this Night to celebrate the birth of Midnight's newest son. Politicians, nobles, scholars, actors, courtesans and courtiers, powerful magicians and their glittering entourages, ambassadors from the Grand Court of the Hours, great generals in their finest dress uniforms, medals glinting in the unnatural light of the Great Hall. The monarchs of the darkest islands had a sense of gravity, even in celebration, but no expense had been spared in preparation for the festivities. Massive tables, carved from the rare, blacker-than-black wood of the Idux tree, dominated the room. Lush velvet tablerunners dressed them – brilliant scarlet, the royal color of Midnight. The hearth roared, bathing all who were gathered with warmth. Wall torches, burning with white flame, brought out the dusky blues of the nearly black stone used to build the hall. Garlands of nightshade had been strung along the walls. Fireflies flitted obliviously inside of large clear orbs suspended from the ceiling. Dinner had already been served, and now that the plates and silverware and finger bowls and used goblets had been cleared away, liveried servants rushed to fill the empty space with tray after tray of sweets and delicacies. Distinguished guests milled about and picked at candied albatross tongues, mouthwateringly tart lavender mushrooms that only grew on Gorgossium one night every three years, giant sea turtle eggs, even a type of fish that guests were warned to eat only a small bite of – anything more would poison the hapless gourmet.

In addition to garlands, the towering stone walls had been draped in elaborate tapestries that were at once beautiful and grotesque; most of them were images of great moments from Nights past. Scenes of horror, scenes of death, scenes of conquest. The grandest, outshining them all in its size and complexity, was hung behind the great dais at which the observer of all these things sat. It was a colossal piece that must have been woven on the largest loom in the Abarat. At first glance, the background seemed all but black, but a closer look revealed blossoming swirls of the darkest blues and greens and purples the night skies could offer, and circular patterns in silver thread that glinted only when viewed from the right angle. But the most amazing component was also the most noticeable, though not immediately familiar to those visiting from the Day islands. The tapestry was an entire map to the heavens, even the minutest of stars, all rendered in precious stones. She recognized Oxhiri, the eagle-king, his constellation instantly familiar due to the large emerald that was his eye-star. Naneh, the goddess who had given her tongue so that speech could be brought to the world, was represented with absurdly brilliant diamonds, as her stars were the brightest in the sky. Gladly she would have continued to browse the patterns, searching for those she knew, but Thant Yeyla Carrion had other plans.

"Witch, to my side. We have matters to discuss." The old woman's voice held no façade of cordiality. The object of her terse words merely sighed.

"As you wish." The absence of a title was deliberate, and did not escape notice.

Mater Motley led the way out of the Great Hall, accompanied by the strange woman she had called Witch. Eyes slid over them as they left; whispers snaked softly in the air. The fearsome matriarch was dressed for the occasion: Voluminous thrice-burned silk, up the back of which was sewn a spine made of real vertebrae to match the real ribs that encased the bodice of the gown like some sort of barbaric breastplate. The crowd parted hastily enough for her, but it was not she who inspired the whispers. It was the figure who followed her, dressed in dove gray robes patterned with silver moons, fringed with softly jangling bells, and a matching hijab wrapped so that it hid all but her eyes.

A flick of her wrist, and the guards closed the doors behind the twosome - the Hag, and the Witch. They walked together, stride for stride, through the corridors of the Night Manor. Servants made themselves quite scarce at the sound of the women approaching. More than once, a secret door would click back into place just as they turned a corner.

"I see you've chosen an unusual amount of modesty," Her lip curled, "Though those ridiculous bells are sickening. Tell me, how has it been?"

The Witch avoided her eyes. "You know perfectly well how it's been. I sought out some of my few remaining colleagues, and it's the same on every Island. A man was nearly beaten to death right in front of me because someone had mistaken his birthmark for the Lion of Nergal." Just summoning the memory made her tremble. Mater Motley looked pleased.

"Times are changing. I'm sure you sense it. These Nights, they are coming to an end. But when I fashion them anew, there will be special room for you and your kind. _If_ they survive long enough. And under certain restrictions, you understand."

"Of course." Said the Witch, newly aware of how desperate her situation was. She might as well be striking a deal with the Devil himself, but the Carrions were an old family, and their empire had always had ample tolerance for even the darkest of magic. At least the humiliations she would soon begin to suffer would also grant her sanctuary.

"What did you find of your, ah, colleagues?"

"Little save for rumors. At this point, I'm sure that those who are not in hiding are dead." The words that spilled from her mouth seemed unreal. She struggled to make the sounds. "It would be best if I did not pry into their whereabouts."

Carrion was indifferent to this news. She had taken her share of lives in the past, and whatever sense of empathy she might have had once had long ago been drowned in blood. "How powerful can your kind be if you can't endure a bit of genocide now and again?"

The Witch swallowed her fury. The only backing out or their deal now would be to kill the old crone, and where would she go then? Who would help her?

The two women had made their way to the deserted Lunar Room of the manor. Rare species of plants and fungi, all of which quite poisonous, thrived under the motherly hands of the resident gardener. Flowers of every color cascaded along trellises, vines straining upward with such fervor that they looked as though they wished to choke the moon itself.

"Have you seen the whelp yet?" Said Mater Motley. She looked around the room, her gaze falling on one unlucky flower. She tore off some of the acid green petals. They smoked in her hand.

"I have." The Witch eyed the petals, though she did nothing to betray her apprehension. The hijab made it easier.

"And?"

"And? What do you mean?"

The Hag's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I know of the physical requirements you necromancers enforce, even on infants. Would this child meet them?"

The gray-clad woman was silent a moment. "He is big, especially for a later child. All curled up, he was still as long as my forearm. And he turned his head to the sound of my voice, which puts him well ahead of others quite early on. Yes, I would say this child meets the standards of our order."

"Good," she said, "perhaps my son will have finally produced something of value to me."

The Witch immediately felt a deep sorrow wash over her. She knew what the deceptively frail old woman in front of her was capable of, and her attempts at divination had revealed that the Hag had many years yet to poison the world. She thought of the young prince, a temporary flicker of innocence, and could only hope that he would know love, at least in the dawn of his life, when love was the most vital. Fate had been deeply unkind to him in a way he would come to know far too soon.

"You have plans for this particular grandson?" She kept her tone indifferent.

"I may find a purpose to put him to, when the time comes. He must be strong though. His siblings, his father, they are all weak. I have little time to waste on the weak."

"Is that why you would see me crippled so?"

She knew she had pushed it too far when the inaudible crackle of magic suddenly filled the room, pressing on her like a physical being. Like a serpent, the air coiled around her; the more she struggled, the tighter it squeezed. Every breath was hard-won. The feeling was alien to her, but she knew its source. The Hag had her name already, and used it now without compassion. The air was pulled from her, her lungs unable to expand. The Witch was on the floor soon enough. Dizzy. Delirious. Her eyes lolled as she collapsed completely, belly up like a subordinate dog.

The pressure lifted. She gulped air.

"I don't care for your tone." Mater Motley's voice was ice. "Remember, I am doing you a favor. These precautions merely ensure my safety."

"Y-yes."

"Do you understand me?"

"I do."

"Well," Motley produced a small wooden box from the sleeve of her gruesome gown, "it would appear, then, that we have reached a milestone, haven't we? I believe it is the perfect time for your gift."

Still dazed and in a heap on the stone floor, the Witch reached up and took it hesitantly. Opening it, she saw two small glass spheres. She plucked them from their satin lined case and sat one in each hand. They were unusually cold to the touch, and felt heavy even though both were roughly the size of human-

"_Eyes_, my dear. Your _new_ eyes, I should say. You won't be needing your current set, as per our agreement." A ghastly smile scrawled across her face. The woman in gray saw the ceremonial blade glitter in the Hag's hand, and with a sudden cold rush in her gut, she remembered exactly what sort of magic those petals were used for.

She looked up at the moon, pale and beautiful, and remembered the tapestry in the Great Hall as she scanned the night sky hopelessly. She tried to identify as many constellations as she could. Mater Motley had taken on the manner of the long-suffering mother, patting her on the head like an errant child, tsking as she pulled away the fabric surrounding her victim's face. As though she were just doing what was she felt was best. The Witch tasted acid in the back of her throat.

"Trust me; the Dark will do you good."


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: This is part one of two, the second chapter will be up soon hopefully! I just wanted to post this for now :)**

* * *

- 26 years later –

The world had stopped.

He still held the crumpled letter in his hand. It fed his despair, and he re-read the words often - not in the hopes that their meaning had changed, but because his self-loathing would boil over once again, giving him renewed strength to rake at his face and body. The servants avoided him at all costs; the few who were unlucky enough to be burdened with the duty of bringing him food (only to have it hurled after them as they fled) said in hushed tones that their prince was bloodied and bruised by his own hands. But his violence was far from limited to his person. Countless possessions lay shattered. All furniture, save the bed, had been ripped apart or battered to pieces in his frenzy. More letters littered the ground, shredded. He had saved all of them. Books, rings, clothing, statues, paintings, curiosities and antiques – all of these, thrown and broken and torn.

The numbness that followed was in many ways worse than the rage. For weeks, he hardly moved from his bed, sprawled and staring blankly up at the ceiling. He slept only when the need absolutely consumed him. He did not eat. His wounds did not heal. Where there had been disarray in his room was now nothingness, the servants having slowly removed the ruined treasures (to attempt to mend them) as well as anything that might have been in danger of destruction. The prince did not care - did not even notice. Though painfully thin, his mind was deadened to the agony of his condition.

His thoughts did not remain quieted for long. He was a Carrion, after all, and soon his mood darkened with plans of retribution. How dare she refuse him? How could she not see that he needed her so much more than the half-breed? He knew the answer, or supposed he did. Finnegan was whole. Brave. _Handsome_. Christopher bared his teeth, blind hatred blazing forth once again. Such a beautiful bride she'd make, with her beautiful groom and beautiful castle on her beautiful island. That was the image that ignited his deepest fury. That was the image that put his mind to purpose.

The Prince of Midnight finally left his chambers in the blackest of moods.

He seized the nearest servant and demanded that suitable garments be brought. News of his appearance and especially foul temper spread through the Towers like wildfire – the rooms and corridors surged with both those trying to carry out his orders and those seeking hiding places. Clothing was soon brought along with a seamstress and her two assistants to alter the fit. Carrion's body was wasted from his weeks of starvation; everything had to be taken in.

"Enough." He said finally, swatting away one of the aides who had been trying to modify the cuff of his right sleeve. "Otto!"

Houlihan, who had been sent for as soon as Christopher Carrion's reappearance was known, straightened up and took a step closer. "My Lord?"

"Have my things fetched from wherever the maids have hidden them. There is work to be done."

"What sort of work?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Houlihan. Go."

Otto did not need to be told twice.

Carrion dismissed the rest of the waiting attendants and made his way to the library. The halls had emptied for the most part, save for the various servants ferrying the prince's salvaged possessions to his bedroom and adjoining chambers. They skirted him nervously, their eyes averted, but he paid them no mind.

When he reached the library he found it (thankfully) empty. Still, his grandmother had her spies everywhere – there was no telling whose eyes might be on him. Christopher strolled leisurely along the shelves and shelves of books, every once in a while stopping to pull one out and examine the cover or leaf through the pages. Despite this show, he had but one book in mind. It had been a difficult text to obtain. The information it contained was powerful and dangerous, and the growing backlash against the darker, more potent varieties of magic had made it all but impossible to lay hands on. The copy he had hidden away may well have been the last of its brothers.

And there it was.

Small, plain, and bound in worn leather, it sat unobtrusively between two significantly larger books. The eye skipped over it so easily that had Carrion not known its exact location he might never have seen it. He ran a finger down the spine, plucked it from its place on the shelf, and let it fall open in his hands. A smile drifted across the prince's scarred lips. This little book would help set the world right. He scanned through the illustrations that had been painstakingly copied from life, and marveled at the tiny, precise handwriting that filled every inch of available space.

"My Lord!"

The prince twisted sharply toward the servant who had dared to intrude, his eyes livid, but soon saw that the man was terrified and out of breath. Carrion allowed him a few seconds. The book, meanwhile, had disappeared from view.

"Well?" He finally snapped.

The servant, a kitchen hand by the looks of him, gulped for air. "Your grandmother – she's on her way here."

"What?"

"She heard you had left your room and is nearing as we speak."

His ire flared and left him speechless for a moment. "Go and stand watch outside the door," he said, "and be quick about opening it for her when she arrives – she doesn't care to wait." Christopher's voice was quiet with anger, spoken with the careful elocution of someone trying very, very hard not to shout. The threat came in clear, and the kitchen hand promptly darted from the presence of his master. As soon as the doors were closed and he was alone once more, Carrion took a moment to compose himself. Loath as he was to deal with her now, it would be far worse and far more inconvenient down the line to avoid the old woman, and it was doubtful that she had come to speak about his recent sufferings. Which meant whatever she had to say was important. His fingers reached up to touch the small book stashed in the inner pocket of his surcoat and slowly traced the hard edge of the cover as he wondered whether his sleight-of-hand had been deft enough. He drew a breath to clear his thoughts.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The library doors opened.

At first, it was merely the servant ducking into the room after completing his task, bowing deeply to his prince, and then fleeing into one of the hidden corridors used by the help. Carrion couldn't blame him, though his lip curled faintly at the man's cowardice. He did not have long to dwell on his contempt; he sensed her before she had even stepped into the doorway.

"I see you've decided to stop your moping."

He bowed slightly, clenching his teeth. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Grandmother?"

She scoffed. "I am not calling on you to exchange pleasantries; there is business that requires your presence. We must leave now."

"I am busy at the moment. Take one of my retainers with you if you require-"

"It can't be anyone else!" She barked. The prince felt the anger rise in his throat, but the Hag suddenly took a different tone. "You should be interested in what we are going to do. It's not an opportunity that lands in front of just anybody."

He looked at her skeptically. "What, exactly, do you need me for?"

"We can't talk openly, not here. Come with me and you'll find out."

Christopher's curiosity got the better of him, and he followed despite his irritation. He noticed for the first time that the Hag was flanked by neither her priestesses nor her seamstresses, which did nothing but raise more questions. Their pace was swift as Motley led her grandson down a dark passageway that, after several minutes of walking in silence, emptied them out into a small room. In the room was nothing except the top of a spiral staircase. Christopher went over to the stairs and looked over the rail. They ran down – all the way down – to the very bottom floor of the tower.

"I am not walking the entire-"

The Hag snapped her fingers.

"-way down there." He stopped, realizing now that they were in near blackness. He looked up and saw the stairs disappearing into the ceiling rather than the floor. They were at the bottom. His grandmother had a smirk on her face that was visible even in the small, dark room.

"Now now, we can't have you exerting yourself, can we?" She said, strolling over to one of the walls. She placed a single finger on the stones, muttered something that Christopher could not hear, and suddenly the wall melted away, revealing the outside world. Waiting for them was a carriage, unmanned and without a beast to pull it.

He marveled for a moment. "So much _secrecy_, Grandmother. It would almost appear that you were up to something you shouldn't be."

"Quiet."

The door swung open as they neared, and closed itself as well after they were seated across from one another inside. With a start, they began moving. The prince could not even see where the thing was headed; the curtains over the windows had been pulled shut, and he didn't dare try opening them. Neither of them spoke as they rode for what seemed like a lifetime. Carrion noticed the terrain becoming rougher after awhile, and soon it felt as though they were no longer even on a trail. Thick bracken scraped and hissed against the wheels. The carriage bucked as it rolled over fallen trees, or perhaps small boulders.

It got worse and worse until, abruptly, they stopped.

The door opened once again. As he climbed out, the prince saw that they were at the edge of the forest through which they had been riding. The coach had parked in a narrow clearing between the wilderness of the trees and an immensely lush garden. He could only stare at it.

Plants of every size, shape, and color flourished together: Rows and rows of squashes and herbs and berry bushes, small orchards of different trees, flowers that all tried to outdo each other in brilliance. He could hear the sound of a fountain gurgling, and of birds squabbling in the trees. Insects buzzed out a thousand different calls. Moths and flies darted about, only to be scooped up into the open jaws of the many bats that feasted here. A cobbled stone path led the way into this Eden, lined with tenderly groomed hedges bursting with red and yellow blossoms. Christopher could hardly believe such a place existed on Gorgossium.

"Stop gawking, we can't waste time." said Mater Motley, unfazed by the sea of life in front of her.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"You'll see."

Her unwillingness to divulge any information angered him, but he was too inquisitive to argue with her. They walked along the path, which meandered indulgently through the garden as if it wanted to linger amongst the greenness forever. Carrion saw the trees open up to his right enough to see a small lake, perhaps man-made, surrounded by a verdant lawn. Little fish glowed brightly beneath its surface. Quickly, though, the trees blocked his view, and he turned to look forward once again. Lo and behold, there sat a house.

It was not large by any means, but it looked well-built. Made of logs and roofed with bark, its presence did not disturb the natural atmosphere of the paradise that encircled it; so much so, that it had even been built around a huge tree which grew right through the center. Then he noticed someone sitting outside.

"Witch!"

The figure looked up. It was a young girl, perhaps no older than eleven, with curly ginger hair and spindly little arms that poked out of her oversized clothing. Hanging from her lip was a huge wooden pipe, and she puffed on it gently. Acrid smoke with an unusual smell Christopher could not identify curled out of her nostrils and rose, twisting, into the air. "I expected you earlier." She said. She looked at the old woman, but there was something odd about the way her gaze lingered, unblinking. She did not acknowledge the prince.

"It was difficult to lay hands on any of his personal items. I was going to bring one of the books he collected that are still in our library, but it wasn't strong enough."

The little girl cocked an eyebrow, her strange eyes glistening. "So what have you brought instead?"

"His son."

Those eyes now turned to him. He saw now why they were so unsettling: They were completely black. "Really, now?" She looked him over. "He seems… diminished."

"He's just been sulking for the past few weeks, he'll be-"

"What, _exactly_, is going on?" Christopher had lost his patience. The girl smiled vaguely at him.

"Come inside, both of you. I have already set up the spell."

"What spell?"

"We're going to figure out whether your father is still alive."


	3. Chapter 2

The room that the girl led them into was vast and circular and, most noticeably, structured around a huge tree which grew at the center and stretched up through the ceiling. Shelves lined the whole of outer wall, some piled with books, others with bottles and jars and small chests. The floor was made of dark, sleek wood, well-polished, but much of it was hidden underneath elaborate rugs. Apart from these things, the room was remarkably bare; everything in its place, everything put away neatly alongside its ilk. The girl walked them around until another door came into view and opened it, standing aside.

"Out there is the courtyard. Carrion, you will know where he needs to sit," she said. Christopher had never heard anyone refer to his grandmother so casually. Come to think of it, there was a distinct lack of fear about her altogether; she stood straight and tall, chin up, with a pointed, insolent gaze that appraised each of them in turn. Then, she simply turned and walked away, her hand reaching out to touch the shelves as she passed. "I'll be there shortly."

"Come quickly, boy." The Hag pushed through the door first. Outside there was indeed a stone courtyard, lined with more plants and even several large cages (the inhabitants of which could not be seen). In the middle of the open stone, he saw an elaborate pattern of circles drawn in silver chalk. Various items had been placed inside the patterns: candles, shells filled with unlit incense, several tiny animal skeletons, a cage containing dozens of live mice, pewter bells, an open book, and a basin full of flowers. His grandmother motioned to one of the circles.

"You sit there."

Christopher fumed. "I am not doing anything of the sort. What is this magic?"

Mater Motley smiled. "It is an old form of the craft, one that you will not likely be familiar with." She said. "I have- or, I should say,_ we _have- a necromancer on our payroll."

* * *

The Witch exhaled deeply and closed her eyes. She blocked out the sound of the two Carrions raging at one another in furious whispers outside, perhaps forgetting that their host had been blind for a couple decades now, and as such could hear them quite well. It alarmed her that the Hag had brought her grandson here after so many years of keeping it from him (and anyone else, as agreed). His presence as the Anchor would certainly give a more accurate result, but she wondered about the consequences.

Her hand started at the top of the shelves and moved down one by one. Fourth shelf down, six containers to the right. Seizing the little jar, she opened it gingerly and dipped her fingertips in the oil. One mark on the forehead. Three over the breastbone. Five on the back of each hand, and one for each eyelid. Replacing the jar, she then took its twin, filled with ash, and completed the marks with the fluidity that comes from years and years of repetition.

The argument between the two had heated up, but it was silenced immediately when she stepped outside. She could see, in her fashion, where they both stood. The old woman was a swirl of black and red and sickly yellow, strong with life and hatred, while the prince was more difficult to evaluate, his energies abnormally nebulous and tangled. She saw, too, the pattern on the ground drawn in its special chalk, and knew exactly where every ingredient had been carefully placed. The Witch crouched momentarily by the circle containing incense. She felt for it, picking up the light bundle and holding it tenderly in her palm. Her flesh began to heat; the smell of smoke reached her nose. She set the lit incense back on its shell.

Turning back to face them, she clapped her hands briskly together. "Now then," she said to the prince, "You'll want to sit, or else you risk falling outside the boundary."

A sneer of green. "I'll be fine, thank you."

"The spell itself does not take long, but it has a way of draining a person. If you don't sit, the first thing you're going to do once I'm finished is fall down. We wouldn't want you to injure yourself, would we?"

"Not necessarily," Mater Motley replied, matching the Witch's casual tone.

Christopher sat. His mood was souring by the second.

The Witch sat in her own circle, neatly collecting her robe around her, and looked forward. The mass of anger and resentment that was Prince Carrion glowered back at her. She smiled brightly.

"Let's begin."

She began to intone the words she knew by heart. Immediately there was a deep, unnatural silence, broken only by her voice, and a strange shift that made her vision and stomach slide. She closed her eyes. As the words continued the shift became stronger, but the initial unease had passed and a great levity seemed to bubble up within her, bearing her up as everything unimportant fell away. The words stopped. Her eyes opened.

In the world of the living she was kept essentially in blackness. The eyes she had been given, made of polished obsidian and woven with magic, could see only the strings of life and energy that coursed through living things. She could distinguish plant from animal. She could distinguish some animals from others. She could even read emotions to a certain extent, especially the vivid complexities of human feeling. But the simple pleasure of seeing her house? The lush splendor of her painstakingly coddled garden? The blue-violet of the night sky? All denied to her. In this world, this half-world between life and what lay beyond, she was not bound by the laws of the living. In this world, she appeared in her own natural form, with her own natural eyes. The Witch could not help but grin as she exulted in the freedom.

Not that there was much to see. It was as if a thick fog had descended. She could see the things close to her easily enough, but beyond her immediate vicinity the images began to pale, losing color and clarity until they disappeared into the gray mist completely. This was only a ghost of the real world after all. The Witch stood over her physical body, frozen in time for the moment, and scrutinized her shape-shifting skills with the dissatisfied eye of an artist. Without the ability to see normally, she had come to rely on her memory to create a human face. The little titian-haired girl she'd invented wasn't necessarily a bad shape, it was just a bit… bland. Before the contract she'd struck with the Hag, she'd prided herself on her attention to detail. The little things that aren't important on their own; that, when combined with other little things, give someone's appearance personality. The Witch made a mental note to flex those old muscles when she was finished here. Speaking of which…

She turned and walked to the Anchor's circle. In it sat the prince, cross-legged and slouching within the boundaries of the chalk. She put her hand to her mouth, thinking back to the baby she'd seen so many years ago. He had grown into a huge man – exceptionally tall, broad of shoulder and chest to the point that it made his head seem too small by comparison, and with large, long-fingered hands that she could sense had been wrapped around their fair share of necks. As young as he was, cruelty had already been etched into his gaunt face. The marks around his lips, the deep sockets that housed blazingly pale eyes, the bald head, and the lifeless skin all added to his gruesomeness, but it was the recent wounds, healing poorly, that alarmed her the most. Despite the natural power of his body, he was painfully thin, and his skin sagged as if he'd lost far too much weight far too quickly. Here, his energies were visible in a way far superior to what she could perceive normally, and what she saw was frightening. Something had happened, she was sure, though what that something was she couldn't say. The Hag said he'd been sulking… she wondered what would inspire this severe of a pout.

A thick golden chain extended from his back, stretching out into the fog. On the other end was his father, and wherever his father might be was the place she needed to go. She jumped up on top; though the chain was as much a ghost as anything else in this world, it was solid beneath her feet, and it held her weight without even bending. Already she could feel her body begin to hum with energy, and she took a step. Then another. And another. She followed, or rather, was impelled forward and out of the courtyard, past the Hag (who looked much the same as she always had), her pace quickening with each step. She was soon out of the garden altogether, into the forest, branches whistling past, out of the forest almost as quickly, past the towers, past the city, past the docks, now hurtling over the Izabella herself with giant, frozen-in-time waves looming over her. Her legs moved of their own accord along the chain now at impossible speed, right left right left right left –

And then she was there. The chain released its hold, and the Witch hopped off gratefully. There was sand beneath her feet, and grass, but what she could see of her surroundings was largely bleak. She recognized it instantly; the Speckle Frew had changed little since she'd been here last. Looking down, she could see that the chain dug into the earth. A few words in the old tongue blasted the sand away enough to reveal the top of a skull. Repeated, and a complete skeleton was revealed, the golden chain protruding from its chest. This could only be the late King of Midnight.

She knelt down and brushed her fingertips against the exposed figure. Scenes of his final moments flickered before her eyes; he'd been running, or searching, and then the hot breath on his neck, and the surreal sensation of teeth puncturing skin, and then a loud, final snap. Hunted and eaten. Not a terribly dignified way to go. But it wasn't enough just to know that he was dead. The Hag was very specific. Where had he put the book? She searched through the memories that bound themselves to his body, etched into the bone as clearly as the teeth marks.

_Ah! Ah. How interesting… _

_Hmn._

The witch stepped onto the chain once more, her simple task completed. She longed to remain here and see, even as charmless as the gray fog and blurry shapes were, but the ache of exertion was already settling on her. She sped back to her beautiful prison on Gorgossium, and took time to inspect the garden and long desperately for the brilliant color of the real world. Back to the courtyard. Back to the Hag and her grandson.

The Witch stopped once more to inspect the prince. The wound was not a large one, as if he had merely been dealt some sort of insult, perhaps, or something like that. But a miasma of rage and hatred and loathing churned around it, too massive in relation to the hurt, like some sort of psychological anaphylactic shock. The lines twisted and seethed, ripping open any portion beginning to mend. Whatever the source, he wasn't taking it well. She bit her lip. Warily, even casting a guilty look around her, the Witch reached out and into his chest, her fingers prodding the tangle. The words she uttered were low, guttural- a language not meant for a human tongue, but adapted crudely. She plucked at the knot and felt the rush of white heat burst out of her fingers.

She stepped back inside her body.

* * *

Christopher had the abrupt sensation of jolting out of a deep sleep and looked around with sudden bewilderment. The Witch, who had only seconds ago finished reciting the spell, opened her whiteless eyes at him, grinning.

"Well?" his grandmother prompted impatiently.

"Oh, quite dead. As you suspected," said the girl.

Christopher scoffed. "It's good to know that this has been a complete waste of my time, then." He got to his feet, but Motley wasn't finished.

"And the book?"

The Witch hesitated, and at last Carrion saw a flash of apprehension flicker across her face. "Gone. He sold it shortly before his death."

"_Sold it_?" The Hag swore under her breath. "Where? To whom?"

"A market on Hobarookus. He did not know who he sold it to. I don't suppose anyone interested in purchasing it would be too keen to let their identity slip."

Another muffled curse. "It could be anywhere by now, then. It might not even exist!"

"What book?" Christopher asked, though by now he expected no answer. He was not disappointed. After a moment of silence, his grandmother waved her hand dismissively.

"It doesn't matter anymore. We're done here."

The Hag and her grandson quitted the courtyard and made their way back to the coach, the girl following quietly behind. She said nothing as her visitors left, and Motley certainly did not engage in any sort of farewell, but as they climbed in Christopher cast a backward glance at her. She stared back with unblinking scrutiny.


End file.
